


of midnight moments and mistletoe

by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Party, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-03 08:10:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8704453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles
Summary: John and Sherlock are throwing a Christmas Eve party, and the flat is all strung up with mistletoe. You can probably guess where this is heading...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this story as four ficlets for the [25 Days of Fic-mas challenge](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com/post/134308673979/25-days-of-fic-mas) in 2015, and it was posted as part of [although it's been said many times, many ways](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5330228/chapters/12307400) along with the other ficlets from the challenge. However, they really comprised their own separate story, so I've pulled them out of that collection, done some significant editing and rewriting, and posted the story on its own here instead.
> 
> Not beta'd or Britpicked.

The flat feels like something out of a storybook--a Christmas fantasy come to life.

A fire blazes merrily in the hearth, popping and crackling and wrapping the sitting room in hazy warmth and the lingering scent of woodsmoke. The entire place is strung up with fairy lights and festive garlands and tidy bunches of mistletoe. The mouthwatering scent of Christmas cake wafts up from downstairs, and instrumental arrangements of classic carols float through the air, bright and buoyant. Outside, the snow falls in fat, wet flakes that cling desperately to every surface, smudging against the windows, blurring the streetlamps into wide, hazy halos of soft white light.

It is ridiculously idyllic, not the kind of Christmas Eve that happens in real life, and certainly not the kind that happen to Sherlock Holmes.

And yet, here he is in the middle of it.

It’s almost more perfect than he can bear.

Almost.

The only thing that could possibly make it better, that could take it from almost to absolute, is if Sherlock could have the only gift he wants this year--the man currently hanging gold and silver ornaments on their Christmas tree.

John has been back at Baker Street for almost six months now, and Sherlock has yet to find a way to say the words that catch in his throat every time he glances his way.   
  
At first he had been too caught up in John being here again, in remembering what it felt like to share a home with him, to share a life with him. In making certain John felt at ease here, felt that he was welcome to stay as long as he wants, forever if he can. In getting back to the way things once were, the way they were always meant to be.

And then as a mild summer turned to a crisp autumn and then the budding chill of winter, as John’s tension gradually eased and his silences grew less fraught, as Sherlock stopped walking on eggshells and let himself believe that John might actually stay, they eased back into familiar patterns--body parts in the refrigerator and medical journals on the coffee table, early morning cases and late night laughter, tea and takeaway and telly, long looks and casual touches and the promise of more sparking just below their skin.

That comfortable familiarity settled over them like a balm, soothing the memories that still sometimes rub them raw, and Sherlock has found himself unwilling to break that peace, to upset the fragile balance between them by taking the risk to reach for more.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it, doesn't ache with need, doesn’t feel his heart struggle against his ribs every time John looks at him with soft eyes and fond smiles. That a simple touch of John’s hand on his arm doesn’t set every nerve in his body alight with electric bliss. That he doesn’t long with every single atom of his existence to touch and taste and take and be taken in turn.

“Sherlock,” John says with a barely suppressed chuckle. “You in there?”

He turns from the fire to see the half-smile on John’s lips and rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Yes, I’m in here.”

“Well, good. Why don’t you turn off that ridiculous brain of yours and come over here? I could use a hand.”

“My brain’s not ridiculous,” he replies, scoffing.

John just grins wider. "Yes it is. Ridiculously brilliant."

He doesn’t say it in response to something clever Sherlock’s done, a particularly good deduction he’s made. He doesn’t say it because Sherlock’s done something useful. He says it for seemingly no reason at all. He says it as if it were just a simple fact, as if it were a law of the universe that Sherlock's mind isn't something to be prodded at or ridiculed but something to be treasured, to be cherished.

Maybe, just maybe, to be loved.

The thought of it sits a little too close, a little uncomfortable, and Sherlock has to make a joke of it, has to ease the ache of the words etching their way onto his ribs, because he isn’t quite sure how else to deal with the knot it leaves in his throat. "How much of Mrs Hudson's mulled wine have you had?"

But John knows. He always knows. "None at all," he says, honest and soft, and then lets it go, lets Sherlock hide behind the joke if that's what he wants to do. He grabs another few ornaments and turns back to the tree, humming along to the music.

Sherlock joins him, and they work in companionable quiet, moving around each other with practiced ease, Sherlock reaching for the higher branches while John decorates the lower ones, the effortless domesticity of their life together cradling around them snug and velvet and sure.

When they're nearly done, Sherlock pulls the star from its box, unwrapping it from layer upon layer of paper, and leans up and over John to reach the top of the tree. His chest brushes against John's back as he stretches to place the star on the top branch, John’s jumper sliding roughly against the silk-blend fabric of his shirt, the soft _shhhsh_ of it intoxicating in its intimacy, and he can’t be quite certain if the hitch of breath he hears comes from his lips or John’s.

He wants to stay there, to breathe deep and press himself more fully against John's back, to wrap his arms around John’s waist and hold him close, to feel the echo of John’s heart beating in his own chest. He wants to turn him around and thread his fingers through John’s hair, press their mouths together until they can’t breathe. He wants to grasp and clutch and pull and hold, to undo, to slip under, to discover the gentle scratch of wool, the softness of cotton, the heat of bare skin beneath his own hands.

Instead, he takes a small but definite step away from the intoxicating lure of John’s body, restoring the careful space they usually maintain between each other.

This is what they do. Move closer. Move away. Like the motions of the tide--coming in, coming in and in and in, but always going out again. They dance ever closer and then run away, retreating to the safety of a comfortable distance, a carefully maintained friendship that always feels like it’s on the verge of something more.

But when John hangs the final ornament in a barer section toward the inside of the tree and steps back to admire their handiwork, his shoulder brushes against Sherlock’s arm, the back of his hand against Sherlock's fingers.

It feels purposeful, that step, that contact.

As if he's made a choice.

As if he’s decided it’s time to stop running.

The fire pops, the snow falls, and Sherlock stands side-by-side with the man he loves.

Waiting.

Barely breathing.

"Beautiful."

"The tree?" Sherlock asks, uncertain. But when he turns to John, John isn't looking at the tree.

"That, too," he replies, quiet, a little bit breathless.

Sherlock’s used to John's praise, the way _amazing_ s and _fantastic_ s drop from his lips as easy as breaths. But not like this. It's never been like this before, as simple and obvious as John standing in front of him, the lights glinting silver-bright in his hair, the fire painting him in a golden-rose glow, telling Sherlock he's beautiful.

The feeling of it burns deep in his chest like lungfuls of embers, until he can't breathe around the heat of it.

Watching the reflections of fairy lights swimming like silvery fish in John's river-deep eyes, he wonders if this is what drowning feels like. He wonders if John means it, truly means it the way Sherlock thinks he might mean it. He wonders what he should say. He wonders if time travel is possible and he could spend a lifetime coming back to this night again and again. He wonders what John is thinking. He wonders if he pressed their mouths together and licked inside if he could taste happiness there, if it would be bright and bursting like ripe tangerines or delicate and sweet like candy floss, if it would dance on his tongue crisp and effervescent like expensive champagne or melt in his mouth mellow and deep like good dark chocolate.

He dips his head low without even thinking about it, his body acting on instinct to carry out his desire, and it's only when John's lips part in the tiniest gasp that he even realises he's moved. He pauses, eyes darting to John's, expecting to find concern or confusion or at the very least hesitance, but instead he only sees openness and anticipation and his own need mirrored back at him.   
  
And whatever John sees on his face, it must be a question--a question he answers with eyes flicking to Sherlock’s lips and back again and then the barest hint of a nod.   
  
Sherlock tries to remember how to breathe, how to force steady gulps of air into and out of his lungs because they can’t seem to do it on their own just now, as he bends lower, close enough now to feel John’s breath against his lips, to pull in tiny sips of John-scented air and hoard them in his chest like dragon’s gold.   
  
The sudden ring of the buzzer downstairs jolts them from the moment.   
  
Neither of them moves apart, but the air around them vibrates with frustration rather than anticipation, their eyes meeting again in a mutual question of _what do we do now?_   
  
With a small sigh that Sherlock feels dance across his face, the ghost of a kiss that never was, John pulls back and says, quiet and, Sherlock thinks, a little sad, “They’re here.”   
  
Sherlock wants to stop him. To grab him round the neck and pull him in anyway. To say sod all of this and lock the door, lock out the world if it means John will just kiss him already.   
  
But the moment is gone, and all he can do is hope another will come their way. So instead he nods and pulls away, and John turns to play the polite host to their guests now coming up the stairs, while Sherlock tries to pretend his heart isn’t still frozen in an almost kiss on an almost perfect Christmas Eve.


	2. Chapter 2

John's footsteps as he walks away echo loud in the quiet that had been building in Sherlock’s head, breaking the gossamer cocoon in which they’d wrapped themselves and bringing all the input rushing in again--the music, the low laughter of their guests on the stairs, the crackle of the fire, the  _ scratch scratch scratch _ of John’s denims as he escapes the moment they’d nearly shared. It leaves Sherlock standing in the middle of the room reeling from the sudden change, the onslaught of sensation crashing over him like waves and threatening to pull him under.

He’s so overwhelmed by it that he can’t even suss out who their first guests are until Molly appears on the landing with a  _ Happy Christmas! _ and Greg on her heels. He closes his eyes for a moment, attempting to wrangle his swirling thoughts into some semblance of organized chaos, and opens them again just as Molly gives John a quick kiss on the cheek. 

His lips twitch at the sight, and jealousy streaks hot and bright along his spine. 

She crosses to where Sherlock still stands, frozen in front of the tree, and presses a kiss to his cheek as well. He numbly returns her  _ hello _ and schools his face to hide the complicated mix of emotions churning underneath, threatening to show, and she turns away to remove her coat without noticing anything awry.

“Oh,” she says suddenly with a delighted giggle. “You two are under the mistletoe.” 

Sherlock follows her gaze, and yes, one of Mrs Hudson’s sprigs of mistletoe hangs over the doorway where John and Greg are engaged in friendly conversation, both their heads snapping upward to verify Molly’s observation.

Greg chuckles, “Well, it is tradition,” and dips his head, his lips aimed directly for John’s. Sherlock sees the surprise of the movement register in the widening of John’s eyes but looks away before their mouths can meet, unable to watch it happen lest his jealousy boil over and lead him to throw Lestrade bodily from the flat. But the loud smack of their lips is hard to ignore, and it burns like acid in his throat.

_ It’s just a stupid tradition _ , he attempts to remind himself.  _ It doesn’t mean anything. _

But the thought that others can so easily do what he can’t, that they can kiss John, that they can do it without it meaning something, that they can do it as if it weren’t the most important thing they’d ever done, as if kissing John wouldn’t provide the answers to all the questions in the universe all at once, settles heavy in his stomach like a lead weight. 

He stalks off to the kitchen for a cup of Mrs Hudson's mulled wine, needing an escape from the moment by the tree and the still-resounding smack of Greg's lips against John's. Needing something to dull the sharp edges of the envy slicing through his veins, something to do with his hands and his mouth that won’t result in embarrassing himself in front of their friends or ruining the evening for John.

There's another ring of the buzzer and more footsteps on the stairs, and Sherlock leans against the refrigerator sipping his wine, letting the warmth of it spread to his fingers and toes and wishing more than anything that everyone else would leave them alone again.

He finishes a second cup by the time the rest of their guests arrive--Mrs Hudson, Mycroft (only invited because he would have shown up anyway), Sherlock’s parents (here at John’s insistence), Mrs Turner and her two tenants (at Mrs Hudson's insistence), Harry (sober for now) and Clara (back for now), and even Sarah and her new fiancé. The flat is fit to burst, chatter and laughter and clinking glasses echoing through the rooms, a far cry from the blanketing quiet that had swaddled around them not long before.

Sherlock leaves them to their merriment, pretending to be very interested in the contents of his glass any time someone enters the kitchen, making as little small talk as he can manage before they give up and let him be. 

Mrs Hudson, however, is not so easily deterred. "Sherlock Holmes, why are you sulking in the middle of your own Christmas party?"

"I'm not sulking," he replies with a sigh, "and it's not my party." If it had been up to him, they would currently be enjoying a peaceful evening. Alone. Not this chaotic flood of family and friends.

"No,” she says, “but it's John's.”

There's something too soft there, too knowing, and it twists between his ribs.

Of course the party had been John's idea. He had asked to have a proper Christmas party this year and Sherlock had seen his need to be surrounded by familiar comfort, by those he cares about and who care about him in return, so of course he had agreed. There'd been no other choice, really.

"I know you don't like parties, dear," Mrs Hudson says, sliding in close and speaking low. "And I know you're not much for people either, but I also know that, more than anything, you want to make John happy." He looks at her then, really looks, expecting to find judgment or, worse, pity, but she merely smiles. "He wants to enjoy the party  _ with _ you. Not for you to spend your evening hiding amongst the nibbles."

She throws him a look of motherly admonishment and vanishes back into the party. 

He looks out into the sitting room, his eyes unerringly finding John. He's engaged in a rather happy conversation with Clara, but when he laughs, his eyes shift to look around the room, his smile faltering just a little. His gaze darts about, from person to person, searching as if he's lost something, a little crease of concern lining his brow.

It's concern for him, Sherlock realises. John is searching for him. All of their guests are here, all of them chatting cheerily in pairs and groups, and Sherlock is the only one nowhere to be found.

Mrs Hudson is right. This isn't what John wants. And if John wants him to be sociable, to enjoy the party, the least that he can do is try.

"Okay," he tells himself. "Okay, yes."

He slips back into the sitting room, cautiously inserting himself into the flow of conversations all around, occasionally glimpsing flashes of the genuine smiles that light up John's face as he catches up with Sarah, as Mummy captures him in an unexpected hug, as Harry tells him a story about something that happened at work.

John isn’t often this social--in fact he’s often as cantankerous as Sherlock is, though he’s better at hiding it in front of polite company--but tonight he seems relaxed and content, moving easily from person to person in a way Sherlock can never quite seem to mimic.

He tries though. For John, he tries. 

He floats around as the evening rushes by, trying to absorb himself in various exchanges, talking to Molly about a fresh corpse she received and to Mike about some new lab equipment. 

But wherever he moves in the room, his gaze tracks back to John again and again, his thoughts wandering with them, losing the threads of conversations as he wonders whether John can still feel Sherlock’s breath against his skin, whether his lungs feel too small in his chest when he thinks of Sherlock’s silent question and John’s nodded answer, whether his lips tingle as if knowing exactly what they’ve missed. 

When their eyes finally meet across the room, John throws him a smile, quick but warm in a way Sherlock can feel lingering long after, deep down in all his soft tissues.

“Sherlock, you okay?” Greg asks, jarring him back to the present.

“Fine,” he says shortly, still haunted by the image of Greg bending to kiss John under the mistletoe, trying and failing not to wonder if John had enjoyed it, if he had given himself over to the kiss for real, if Greg had slid his tongue between John’s lips and allowed himself to taste. 

His eyes find John again, looking to him like a beacon that can keep him from becoming unmoored and drifting asea. 

As if he can sense Sherlock’s gaze crawling on his skin, John looks up immediately from his conversation with Mrs Turner, his eyebrows quirking a concerned  _ okay? _

Too much--Sherlock’s face is giving away too much. 

He forces his muscles to relax, to smooth the lines he can feel etched there, to unwrinkle his brow, unclench his jaw, pull the corners of his lips up and out of a frown. He knows how to do this, how to school his body, school his emotions. He pushes the jealousy down deep and locks it away so that it can’t seep out of his pores like poison gas. 

John’s concern doesn’t dissipate, but he raises one side of his mouth in an affectionate half-smile, and Sherlock lets it fill him, smiling back a slight, reassuring  _ yes okay _ and concentrating on the hazy contentment that rushes back to the surface to flow into all the spaces left by the ebb of his jealousy. 

John had nearly kissed him. 

They’d been interrupted, yes, but John had nearly kissed him. Their lips had almost touched, and when Sherlock had been unsure, John had urged him on. 

John wants to kiss him. 

He lets the thought bubble and bounce inside of him until his dark mood lifts like a veil and he can look at Greg without wondering how it would feel to pitch him from a window.

“Something going on between you two?” Greg asks, following Sherlock’s gaze.

“No,” Sherlock says quickly. Too quickly.

The look on Greg’s face is sceptical, but Sherlock’s mother saves him from it by announcing that it’s time to play Trivial Pursuit, taking charge as if she were the one hosting this party. He knows, however, that she won’t be argued with on this--board games are a Holmes family Christmas Eve tradition. 

Even though the distraction is welcome, Sherlock doesn’t think it’s a much better alternative to being interrogated by a nosy Detective Inspector. He had hated this tradition as a child, and he hates it now. 

Mummy pulls the game seemingly out of thin air and begins to unpack its contents on the coffee table, explaining something about playing in teams that Sherlock tones out as soon as she opens her mouth. 

He slips silently toward the kitchen, hoping to hide out there again until the games are over.

His exit doesn’t go unseen this time, however. 

John reaches out for his arm as he tries to slide through the doorway, his fingers pressing into the bare skin just above Sherlock’s wrist, sending chills and waves of heat simultaneously coursing through his veins like winter lightning. It's the first time John has been near him since their almost-kiss by the tree, and Sherlock is nearly overcome with want. He manages to keep breathing, but only just, the steady in and out of his lungs the one thing keeping the dizzy swirl of desire inside him from knocking him sideways. 

John steps closer and drops his voice low so no one else can hear. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, amused.

Sherlock wants to say something clever, something that will make John bark out a gruff, warm laugh, make the firelight dance delightedly in his eyes, but he has no idea what that would be right now. He can’t think like this, with John’s hand around his arm, fingers searing into his skin, thumb sweeping a lazy line back and forth along the vein inside his wrist.

Sherlock's gaze tracks down to where John’s hand encircles his arm and back up again, his eyes pleading, begging, though he isn’t quite sure for what. 

_ Please.  _

His skin prickles hot, and a tremor traces down down his spine, electric and dazzling.

John's mouth twists more, his crooked grin growing knowing and smug, hazy heat shimmering just below the surface of that unfathomably blue gaze like a mirage. And Sherlock can't focus, can't move, can't do anything at all when John is looking at him like that.

“You gonna kiss him or not?” Harry's voice cuts through the foggy haze of heat, shattering the moment into jagged shards. “You got him under the mistletoe, Johnny.” 

A flash of irritation races across John’s face, one he feels mirrored beneath his own skin, but John doesn’t look away. His eyes stay locked on Sherlock’s face, and this time it’s John asking the question. 

All he has to do is nod, and John will kiss him. 

All he has to do is nod, and he’ll get exactly what he wants, what he’s dreamed of nearly every night for months, for years. 

All he has to do is nod.

But he can’t.

Not like this. 

Not with the mistletoe as a convenient excuse. 

Not when it could be laughed off as meaningless, as just upholding a tradition, just like Greg kissing John in the sitting room doorway. 

He doesn’t want John to kiss him because he has to but because he wants to. Because whatever this is Sherlock sometimes glimpses between them is real. Because John wants him the way he wants John, with every cell in his body, every thought in his head, every traitorous beat of his too-fragile heart.

And he thinks that John does want him that way. After their near-kiss earlier, he thinks it’s possible. He thinks it’s likely. But here under the mistletoe it feels too much like it could be a lie, like he’s seeing what he wants to see and John doesn’t want him that way at all.

He has to say no before he can think about the implications of his choice, before he can regret it and decide to take whatever little scrap John is willing to give him if it just means John’s lips will touch his, even for only a moment. He can’t bear to think about what will happen if John’s face crumples at Sherlock’s refusal or, worse, if it floods with relief. 

Before he can lose his nerve, he shakes his head just a centimetre to each side, pulls his arm from John’s grasp, and turns for the stairs, hoping that his knees won’t buckle under the weight of his decision as he flees down and out into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

He needs to smoke. He needs the feeling of something filling up his lungs, something tangible, something more corporeal than this too-cold air or the scent of John Watson or all these damn emotions expanding in his chest, squeezing around his heart like a vise.

Of course, there hadn’t been time to grab his cigarettes from their hiding spot in his wardrobe as he fled, but he can stop and buy a pack somewhere.

A quick glance at his watch, however, reveals that it’s just past midnight. All the shops will be closed.

It’s Christmas now.

And here he is standing on the pavement, alone and shivering.

He hadn’t thought to grab his coat either, had tried not to think about what he was doing at all, just fled. But that had clearly been a mistake, as it’s still snowing those fat, white flakes that cling to his eyelashes and his clothes and the bits of forearm exposed by his rolled shirtsleeves, his skin still singing with the memory of John’s touch.

Without his coat he feels bare in too many ways, unarmored, unprotected from more than just the elements, but he can’t go back for it now. His only choice is to walk. The movement will keep him warm, the distance giving him time to think.

His feet carry him away from 221B, but he doesn’t take more than ten steps down the pavement before he hears the click of the door behind him and the soft crunch of a familiar gait following quickly after him in the snow.

He slows his pace out of habit but doesn’t stop walking, his breath puffing out in feathery swirls that dissipate against his skin with every step forward.

“Sherlock, where are you going?” John asks as he catches up to Sherlock’s side.

He’s tempted not to respond, to just carry on walking in silence until John gets fed up and leaves him alone out here in the cold, but it isn’t John he’s trying to flee, not really. It’s that moment back there in the flat. The expectation to conform to a stupid tradition. The uncertainty that presses down on him. The need still bubbling hot and molten in his veins.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly.

John grabs his arm again, his fingers sliding into the same spots as before, as if Sherlock’s body were indented with permanent impressions of the few places John has ever touched him, a topographic map of John’s skin against his.

“Can you stop then?” he asks with a gentle tug that still manages to pull Sherlock back around to face him.

Everything is quiet, the sounds of the city muffled by the weight of the falling snow, as if a curtain has been drawn around them heavy and dark.

Out here tonight, they could be the last two people left alive.

The wet flakes drift down and catch on John’s snug, emerald jumper, on his warm, butter-rum skin, in his soft, sandy hair glittering silver and gold like the ornaments hanging on their tree. He looks like Christmas, and the ache in Sherlock’s chest grows impossibly tighter until he can’t move under the bruising pain of it.

John’s eyes are dark as midnight in the dim light of the frosted-over streetlamps, and they search Sherlock’s face, looking for some kind of answer to a question that Sherlock can’t hear.

“Please don’t run away from this,” he gently pleads, his voice dropping to hardly more than a whisper. “From me.”

Sherlock shakes his head in tiny, rapid motions, the denial vibrating through him. “I’m not,” he manages to choke out. “Not you.”

John’s head twists in confusion. “Then what?”

“That.” Sherlock flings his free hand back toward the flat in irritation. “All that. Your sister. The mistletoe. All of it.”

John doesn’t say a word. He stands and waits, patient, his expression steady and open, wanting to understand and giving Sherlock time to find the words to explain.

“Before, by the tree, that was… good, um, very good. And I thought-- But then people were there and th-the mistletoe, and it seemed like maybe-- like it was just-- with Harry prodding you, like it didn’t, it wouldn’t--”

He growls at himself in frustration, unable to make his mouth form the words to explain properly.

“I mean, with Lestrade, that was-- It was just an excuse there, right?”

He hates the way he turns it into a question, the way his voice shakes at the end, as if his stammering wasn’t already enough to give away the fear that flows thick and dark under his words.

John’s eyebrows furrow as his confusion deepens. “What are you-- Wait, do you honestly think I wanted to kiss Greg?”

“No,” Sherlock barks. He doesn’t think that, no, but he can’t seem to express his actual thoughts clearly enough to make his point. He can see the words all floating around there inside his head, but it’s as if he can’t grab hold of all the ones he needs to make his thoughts complete.

“It’s just that with Lestrade it was-- it wasn’t-- and then you were going to-- and I didn’t know if--”

Another frustrated groan tears from his throat, and he fights the urge to put his hands in his hair and pull at it until the words stop swirling. _Why is this so hard?_ He forces the cold, crisp air into his lungs and out again, trying to freeze the words in place, to make the spinning stop, to collect his thoughts and try again.

But he doesn’t have to. John’s eyes widen in understanding, though Sherlock isn’t sure how he could have pieced together any of that into something coherent.

“Were you worried that--” He shakes his head and looks up at Sherlock in wonder. “Yes,” he says, starting again. “The mistletoe was the only reason for the kiss with Greg. It was an excuse with _him_ \--a silly tradition and a silly kiss that came out of it. Of course it was. Of course. I don’t love Greg, I lo--”

He cuts himself off sharply, but Sherlock doesn’t miss the words he didn’t say, hanging there in the air between them.

John’s thumb twitches against the inside of his wrist, and in a moment of bravery, spurred on by the words not quite said, Sherlock twists his arm in John’s grasp, pulling away just long enough to bring their hands together instead, twining his long fingers with John’s shorter ones and holding them tight.

They stare at each other, wide-eyed and wondrous, Sherlock mesmerized by the deep in and out of John’s chest, by the slight stretch of the soft cashmere of his jumper on each inhale, by the little cloud of breath that wafts away into the night on every exhale, by the softness in his eyes, the tenderness written in every line on his face, the words he hadn’t said but Sherlock can still see written plainly on his lips.

Snow gathers in their hair and along their shoulders and down their arms to their joined hands, frosting them like a piece of the landscape, freezing them there together in this quaint little Baker Street tableau.

“Sherlock, I don’t need mistletoe as an excuse to kiss you.”

Even though they’re holding hands, even though John had nearly confessed himself just a moment ago, Sherlock’s belly does a flip at those words, at the acknowledgment that John wants to kiss him, that he could, that he might.

“The only excuse I need is that I want to. That I don’t want to spend another Christmas without you--hell, I don’t want to spend another minute without you.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hand tighter. “The only excuse I will ever need to kiss you is that I love you.”

He pauses, letting those words sink in.

“I love you,” he says again, impulsively, almost as if he can’t stop himself from saying them now that they’re out. “I love you, and I think that maybe you might love me, too?”

He says it as a question, and Sherlock knows he needs to answer, but what words could possibly be a worthy response to that? There aren’t any that he knows. There aren’t any words at all. He’s forgotten the whole of the English language because John is standing here on Baker Street, glistening in the Christmas snow, hand-in-hand with Sherlock, telling him that he loves him.

In lieu of words, Sherlock bends his head and rests his forehead against John’s, overwhelmed but willing his thoughts to somehow work their way out through his pores and coalesce again in John’s brain without the need to first be translated into fickle words.

And John must understand because he rubs his nose against the side of Sherlock’s, nuzzling up the length of it and back down again.

Their lips part in anticipation, and they breathe together, letting everything settle into place. And when he’s ready, John gives a tiny nod, just like the one he’d given in front of the Christmas tree, and Sherlock closes the distance, pressing his mouth to John’s.

The instant that they meet, the entire world shrinks down to this.

Everything is still and quiet except for John’s lips soft and pliant against Sherlock’s own, his tongue dipping hot and wet inside Sherlock’s mouth for the barest of tastes, their breath mingling, swirling thick and moist through the air.

And for just a moment, with all the world frozen around them, they really are the only two people alive.


	4. Chapter 4

They walk the dozen or so steps back to the flat still hand-in-hand, both a little starry-eyed, their lips and cheeks stained rose by more than just the cold. John moves to open the door, and Sherlock pulls him back around on the step, slides a hand along his neck and kisses him again, long and open and sweet, not yet wanting to break the glass bubble of this tender snowglobe scene.

When they part, he rests his forehead against John’s and just breathes, wrestling with this new reality in which he’s allowed to do this, to kiss John, to touch him, to say...

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers. He hadn’t said it when John asked before the kiss, hadn’t been able to find the words, but the touch of John’s lips has calmed the frantic swirl inside his mind, turning down the volume on his cacophonous thoughts, and he can say them now.

He pulls back to see John beaming and slides a hand up to cup his cheek, wanting to feel that joy in the pull of the muscles beneath his palm. John presses in for another kiss, lips and tongues sliding together supple and slow, and Sherlock really can taste the happiness there. It’s soft and bright, buoyant and deep--candy floss and tangerine and champagne and chocolate all at once.

Eventually, when the shivers running down their spines are no longer just from the electricity of their touch and the cold has finally gotten the better of them, John plants one last chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips and turns back to open the door, tugging Sherlock into the warmth of the entryway. And with one last wistful look at the delicate frozen wonderland in which he first kissed John Watson, Sherlock closes the door behind them.

They stop in the entryway, finding each other’s gaze in the dim light. Sherlock is more than a bit hesitant at the thought of rejoining their friends and family upstairs. The party almost seems like it belongs to a whole separate world, one in which he doesn’t yet know the feel of John’s lips on his own.

“What do we do now?” he asks, unsure what he wants the answer to be. Half of him wants to barge into the sitting room and shout to everyone that John loves him, and the other half wants to lock that perfect moment away in his heart so that no one can ever touch it.

John glances up the stairs to check that no one is around and then presses in close to him again, pinning him gently against the wall with hands on his hips.

“What I’d like to do,” he says, leaning in to press a kiss against the small patch of skin on Sherlock’s chest exposed by the open vee of his collar, “is take you upstairs...” A kiss against the base of his throat. “And strip you down slowly...” Another against his adam’s apple, which bobs under John’s lips when he swallows heavily. “Like I’m unwrapping a present…” Underneath his chin, and Sherlock’s stomach flutters wildly. “And kiss every inch of you…” Along his jaw, and he tries not to moan. “Let you kiss every inch of me…” On the corner of his mouth, so close but not quite there and soft soft soft, just enough pressure to make his skin tingle at the touch. “And then make love to you all night.”

Sherlock gasps into John’s mouth when he finally presses their lips together again, John flicking his tongue against Sherlock’s and sucking lightly at his bottom lip in a filthy promise.

“But for now,” he says, pulling back to rest their heads together again, “we have to go back up there and pretend that we still give a shit about this party, that we’re not just waiting for them all to leave so that we can get each other naked.”

“I don’t know if I’m that good of an actor,” Sherlock says, breathless, and John laughs.

“I don’t know if I am either, but we have to try.”

“And what do we say? About this?” Sherlock asks, sliding a hand into the dip of John’s waist, still marveling that he can touch John like this now.

John pulls away a bit, and Sherlock can see the same desire there, that need to hold on to this as something just for them.

“Nothing,” he says. “For now. This can be just for us for a little while.” He smiles gently, but then his brow furrows a little and he adds, “If that’s okay with you?”

Sherlock presses a kiss to his forehead to soothe the worried wrinkles. “Just us for now.”

There will be time to continue this later, a time for more kisses and more words, a time to share their declarations with family and friends, but for now he’s happy to let the moment stay out there in the snow, to let it be their own little secret, frosted and fragile and only for them.

He kisses John once more, feeling a little bit as if he were doing it for the last time, the idea of having to be parted from him for even an hour more making his stomach roil, but it’ll be worth it to have this night for themselves.

They part and walk up the stairs in silence, Sherlock trailing after John, trying to calm the still-frantic beating of his heart.

The music has gone quiet, and now the voices do, too, many sets of curious eyes flicking to the pair of them when they come back through the door into the sitting room.

But John says amicably, “Whose team am I on?” and takes a seat on the arm of the sofa, and though clearly everyone wants to ask, no one does, returning instead to their game as if there’d been no interruption at all.

Mycroft, however, continues to look at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised just enough to be infuriating. Of course he knows. He probably got a text about it from one of his underlings watching the CCTV feed as soon as Sherlock’s lips had touched John’s.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, crosses the room, and picks up his violin, rosining his bow before launching into a litany of classic carols and losing himself in the music, the evening wearing on around him as he plays and plays.

Sometimes he can feel John’s eyes on him, but he forces himself to concentrate instead on the steady pull of the bow across the strings, on the press of his calloused fingertips against the fingerboard, on the silvery sounds that reverberate through him like his own pensive voice, and not on the glorious promise of the words John had kissed into his skin.

And when the game is long done and the fire burns low and the buzz of the conversation drifts toward an early morning hush, the guests eventually begin to take their leave. Sherlock pauses between songs to say polite _goodnight_ s and press a kiss to his mother’s proffered cheek, before turning back to the window and playing on.

Then finally, finally the last of the footsteps echo down the stairs, and John pushes the sitting room door closed with a quiet snap.

Sherlock shifts from the bouncing strains of ‘Deck the Halls’ to the soft, sinuous elegance of ‘White Christmas’ but doesn’t turn around. Now that they’re alone, he’s excited and terrified and unbearably nervous, so he lets the music sweep through him, calming the fluttering in his belly and the unsteady thump of his heart.

When his bow finally stills and the notes fall away and he can draw out the wait no longer, he turns to find John still leaning back against the door, looking at him with such open affection that he nearly drops his bow.

After a long, quiet moment, John pushes off the door and steps toward him. “‘White Christmas’ is my favorite.”

“I know,” Sherlock says with a shy smile. He had figured that out the very first Christmas they’d shared. “I learned to play it just for you.”

“When?”

“Years ago.”

John’s face flickers through surprise and confusion and joy and settles into something so tender Sherlock feels like he could crack. John steps close and threads his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulls him down for a delicate kiss.

Every brush of his lips says _I love you, I love you, I need you._ And when Sherlock runs his tongue tentatively along the seam of John’s mouth and John opens to him and their tongues swirl together, dancing and teasing and tasting, _I need you_ turns to _I want you,_ and the heat between them builds, rising up from their toes as if they were standing on coals, until their bodies are awash with the glow of it.

Just as the kiss is on the edge of becoming more, as Sherlock’s need to kiss more and touch more and see more of John starts to take over, John pulls away with a flirty grin and slides back a step.

“You could stay here and play more if you want,” he says. “Or...” He takes another couple steps back toward the kitchen. “You can come to bed.”

He turns and walks away, heading for the bedroom as if it’s where he belongs, as if it’s his own, as if it always has been.

Sherlock all but tosses his violin back into its case on the desk and chases after him, catching him up in time to pin him back against the kitchen door, his eyes flicking to the mistletoe above their heads, lips curling into a wicked grin before he dives in for a kiss, hot and wet and needy.

They trade kisses as they push and pull each other down the hallway, shedding their clothes as they go, nipping at newly-exposed skin, sucking plum bruises on necks and shoulders and hips and thighs, falling into the pillowy warmth of Sherlock’s bed.

Everything else falls away into white noise as Sherlock focuses on the siren’s call of _John, John, John,_ enchanted by the low murmurs of John’s words breathed into his pores, by the soft hitch of John’s breath when Sherlock kisses along his jaw, by the surprised little _oh_ that puffs from John’s mouth like smoke when Sherlock pulls a peaked nipple between his lips and flicks it with his tongue. The way his voice shakes when Sherlock nuzzles into the crease of his thigh so close but so far from where John wants him. The gasp when Sherlock wraps a hand firmly around his cock and strokes it long and slow. The moan when he meets John’s dark gaze as he swallows him down. The sound of Sherlock’s name breaking apart on John’s tongue as he comes.

And then Sherlock is lost. Lost in the sensation of John’s hands and his mouth and his words and his love. He is the lone traveler on a boat adrift at sea, smashing apart on the rocks, John’s name the last word on his lips before he drowns.

Later, when their hearts and their breaths have slowed again, when the need to touch and taste is a bit less pressing, they curl up together and drift off to sleep, all wrapped up in the duvet and one another.

And when they wake they’ll unwrap each other again, discovering every inch of skin anew in the pearl-grey morning light of Christmas day, the only gift on either’s Christmas list this year.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr as [hudders-and-hiddles](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com).


End file.
